Colors
by SeungSeiRan
Summary: Seven shades to one relationship. Some romantic, others platonic. Steve x Julia.


Because I was bored. And I missed Steve x Julia.

Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own Tekken.

* * *

_~*~Violet~*~_

He'd never cared much for flowers. Especially the ones like violets and irises. Those had been his mother's favorites and he had no desire to confront those shared memories. Admittedly though, they looked lovely set against the cream silk of her dress. A bunch of them had been woven into her dark locks, combed and gathered at the nape of her neck in a series of long loose ringlets. It helped take the edge off his nerves when she pinned one on his jacket lapel.

Asuka poked her head through the doorway, clutching Christie's lost bouquet. "You guys ready to go?"

They both nodded. No hurry when it wasn't your wedding.

It was his first time as a groomsman and her third time as a bridesmaid. And he knew what they said about that…

"Three times a bridesmaid, never a bride, Julia?"

"Que sera, sera, Steve."

Whatever will be, will be. A simple philosophy on life, one which he didn't care much for. That, along with the theory on love at first sight as well as that ill-used phrase about opposites attracting. Then again, he mused as he allowed her to slip her arm through his, a man didn't need a ring to prove he was committed.

She should have figured that out by now.

* * *

_~*~Indigo~*~_

Balmy nights in Britain were indigo. She had come to this conclusion without much of a hypothesis to back it up. Fatalists saw the world in monochrome, dreamers admired it through rose-tinted glasses. If Julia Chang thought the world was indigo, it was indigo. She couldn't wait to get back home to Arizona. To a land of eternal sun where folklore was truth and the cold was stuff of legends. She'd been lucky to have the best of both worlds. Looking forward to whatever possibilities the future promised and still learning from the lessons the past had taught her.

Christmas was in the air. Odd, considering that it was only November. Even the stores had latched on to the idea by boasting of 'the lowest prices in town'. So much for remaining positive during a recession.

She turned down offers from vendors selling straw hats, polyester anoraks and paper flowers. Very politely of course, with a gentle smile and apology.

The surprise of seeing him in high-definition clarity was definitely a nice touch though. Even if he hadn't used his Oxford-bred smarts to calculate the time it would have taken for him to navigate through ten kilometers of woolen-clad shoppers when his car stalled in the middle of London in order _not _to show up more than an hour late…

That was fine with her. If she'd been born a fatalist, she'd have assumed he was an idiot. If she'd taken up dreaming full-time, she'd have let him walk over her long ago. But the world was indigo, the deepest it could go, so everything would be alright in the end.

* * *

_~*~Blue~*~_

And just when the press had dubbed him 'invincible'.

Steve Fox, world middleweight boxing champion, Oxford alumni, heartthrob, uncelebrated wit and overall extraordinaire, was at the mercy of a common cold. In the middle of May. With a splitting headache. And a nose that could put Rudolph the reindeer to shame.

Thank God for microwave dinners and knitted quilts. Now if he could just find that bloody TV remote…

"G'day!"

Yelping, he slipped off the sofa and landed flat on his back with all the grace of a drunken water buffalo.

"What on earth was that for?!"

"Sorry," she giggled. "Just thought you could use some cheering up."

"D'you have any beer on you?" He looked expectantly at the package in her hands.

"…No…"

Wonderful. He growled and burrowed further under the covers. "Don't see any point in you hangin' around then. No offense, Julia, but I think I hear a forest being annihilated somewhere in the eastern part of – "

She untied the string around the parcel and lifted the cake from its box. Blue icing, his name in creamy white frosting, twenty two candles waiting to be lit.

Oh.

_Oh._

_Ohhh…_

"I'd take it back but Happy Birthday anyway."

* * *

_~*~Green~*~_

Crushes are called that for a good reason. They don't let you go unscathed. You can't breathe, the weight of the feeling smothers you in its embrace, and you'd do anything to let it be. You start disintegrating to a series of blushes and you'd like nothing better than to inflict that same punishment on the one who'd cast his spell on you. You wish for him to turn away so that you won't have to tremble under those sky blue eyes and then you wish that he'd look at you again when he does. You need to be free of him, you want to be bound to him. He likes your laugh, he loves her smile. He's got your heart and you haven't even taken his number.

He gave her roses for their anniversary, he gave you a four-leaf clover for luck.

He hugged you at your surprise birthday party. He kissed her under the mistletoe last Christmas.

She has his heart and all you've got left is that four-leaf clover pressed into your diary.

The week before, you both walked through autumn leaves in a mild breeze, holding hands and singing your favorite songs. The week before, you were dreaming and none of that was real. You tried to call but his line was busy because he was talking to her. You waited for him to pop up on-line so that you could laugh at the one-liners he sent your way. He didn't so you had to make do with acoustic love songs on the radio.

You wish that you could let him go. He wishes you the best of luck as you head off for college.

You try hard. Teacher's pet in elementary school, eight grade class president, high school valedictorian, a trophy daughter, medals and certificates filling your mother's glass cabinet, the envy of everyone not as gifted as you.

But the green four-leaf clover has withered.

You smiled when they announced their engagement. You smiled when you went up to him and said, "Congratulations". You smiled as you wished them both the best of luck in life and love. You smiled because it wouldn't do for him to see you cry…

* * *

_~*~Yellow~*~_

Three years had passed by too quickly for his liking. She looked good as always in charcoal slacks and a grey overcoat to combat the recent chill. Unlike most things, her dislike of winter hadn't changed.

He caught her eye and she waved in greeting.

The child in her arms was a glorious sight to behold. Beautiful as she was but not beautiful _like _her. A beautiful perfect little girl with a cheeky grin and tiny hands which toyed with her mother's plait. Glossy black hair streamed out from beneath her sunflower yellow parka. Julia seemed in, excuse the pun, good spirits as she braved the icy wind billowing into the central square.

"Steve! How've you been?"

"Great." he lied. "And you?"

She paused, contemplating an answer that was already so evident to him. With a sidelong glance at her daughter, she replied, "Busy."

"I see," He smiled to reassure her of his act. "Guess that means that things are going well on your side."

"Very much so."

The girl had her mother's gaze and her father's light brown eyes. With parents like hers, the chances of anyone falling for her charm were precariously high. Who could he not have loved a girl like Julia? How could she have not loved his roguishly adorable best friend? Things like that came naturally to people like them. Boy meets girl, girl meets boy. Boy loves girl, girl doesn't. Girl meets other boy, they fall in love and live happily ever after. First boy has no choice but to move on with a friendly wave goodbye.

"Her name's Sunny."

"I should've known." He ruffled her silky black hair and tickled her chin, glad to hear laughter in return. "A living, breathing little yellow sunbeam."

So the story goes. Girl meets first boy. She seems happy, he's more than satisfied that she is.

Maybe he'd give Fate a chance.

* * *

_~*~Orange~*~_

The party was over. Stains lined the sofas, empty packets were scattered on the floor, Hwoarang had passed out from his lethal signature concoction of cheap vodka, soda and apple punch, Jin had snuck a giggling Christie outside 'for a talk' so Xiaoyu had tried to console herself by drowning her sorrows in Hwoarang's leftover vodka. Asuka was recording the Chinese girl as she babbled on about her non-existent love life to a potted rubber plant. Which left Julia to clean up the mess as usual and Steve to hinder any progress that she made.

"Julia, do you think love really exists? For all we know, it's just a fad created by the media so that chocolate factories and florists don't go bankrupt because of all that fuss about Valentines. I mean, the heart doesn't even look like a heart. It looks like this – "

He clenched a fist to show her.

" – and uglier too. It's, like, the color of veal, somewhat a sick shade of purplish red, not that red you see in the commercials. Not even the least bit romantic. So when you're alone, bored and single, along comes the first bloke you see with a six-pack and thus, it beats. Hormones, really. Nothing to do with the metaphysical. You see someone you like, your heart starts pumping more blood to the rest of your body so that you don't end up making a fool of yourself by fainting on the spot. But that becomes pointless because that rush of oxytocin in your blood feels nice so you'd like a bit more. Therefore, you still end up making a fool of yourself. It's a normal biological process which just happened to be termed 'love' for lack of a simpler, more scientific, term."

She wondered how potent that vodka really was.

"What do you think love is?"

"Unheard of. Either that or it's orange."

The alcohol in his breath bathed her skin in heat as he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. What with them being the only two people left standing, it would have to be a private waltz set to alternative jazz from an IPod deck.

"I don't know what to wean you off of first, Jules. That mind of yours or those old reruns of _Lost_."

"And I love you too." She whispered knowing full well that he wouldn't remember it the next morning.

* * *

_~*~Red~*~_

It was the third minute of the eleventh round. Sweat poured out of every pore in his body as did on his opponent. Thirty seconds left for him to get this right and end it now. Bobbing, weaving, dodging, sliding in and out of offense and defense, holding back until he could spring his surprise. He'd suffered from tunnel-vision from the day he was born, willing and able to conquer anything through sheer force of determination. A fine quality for one who stood to conquer the world in his prime. Fortune favors the bold and a life of fighting wasn't meant for the weak.

A life he had gotten used. A life he'd earned through blood and sweat.

It had become a daily mantra he recited so that he maintained as much faith in it as he'd had as a boy.

Childhood seemed so distant. He still awoke to the same sun in the same sky in the same city. The same streets had kept him company during those dreaded morning jogs and the same lonely clouds had rained down on him when he needed it. All that had changed were the names, faces and the trends. The blows hurt less than they used to but the blood still bleeds red…

A blind strike caught him in the jaw. His vision blurred with the hammering of the bell.

One more to go…

And then… what?

His moment of epiphany came as he stared into the blinding lights above him, not caring for the words of encouragement his coach pumped into his ears or the ice water sprayed onto his perspiring forehead. He was empty, hollow as a man without ideals, just living for reasons he'd cut from cardboard stories of fame and glory.

Once you grow up, fairytales take on lives of their own. Most of them don't bother playing by the rules.

He swallowed down the blood and bitterness as his mouth-guard was forced back in. The bell tolled on the final round where he had one last chance to turn the tables in his future. He would receive a glittering embellished belt for his troubles and allow it collect dust along with the others he'd accumulated. He had a knack for collecting things he didn't need, including those fake gold trophies, fake women with plastic smiles, fake mirages which had dissipated with the rest of his adolescent fantasies. How they glowed so mockingly in under these bright lights knowing that he'd submit to the strings they pulled. He was their puppet and they reveled in their ownership.

She nodded at him silently, not bothering to raise her voice above the din. He stared blankly and wondered if she'd known all along.

The champion keeps his dignity afloat and lets his regret rip through his strategy, scrounging through streams of adrenalin for that missing piece he'd neglected. He'd spent his whole life running through the madness that erupted in the tawny back alleys of his forgotten youth, through crowded subways in New York dodging bullets from Mafia assassins, leaping over things which couldn't be seen or touched. He'd run off from fear, pain, mistakes and the strings that attached these to the best people he couldn't stop to meet. He'd hid from his own kind due to his need to ascend to immortal realms.

Herculean feats of strength and flights of fancy aside, he was only human.

What did he have to lose except for a win? What did he need to prove to her that he could break down an army of men like him? What did he have to do for her to understand that all he wanted was for her to want him as much as he needed her by his side?

The bell clanged for the moment of truth.

His arm remained at his side whilst the referee raised the limp one of his fellow fighter. The crowd sighed in collective shock, aghast that their hero had fallen from so high a loft. He couldn't care less. His heart felt as numb and heavy as his bruised hands.

She surprised him in the locker-room as he slumped dejectedly on a bench with his aching head in his palms. He'd never forget that she'd wiped the blood from his chin and kissed his cracked knuckles when others had left him to heal alone. It had been her hand that had caressed the mottled skin marred by his scars and her eyes that had seen him as more than a face on a poster. Her hands, unlike his, were smooth and clean, free from the filth of futile battles yet strong from years of toil.

And it was her heart that he coveted more than a glimmering piece of metal. It was her love that reddened the blood that flowed through him, giving him his wings to fly and humming a rhythm he'd forgotten.

A mere embrace wasn't enough to thank her but he had now to prove that they could be more than what everyone perceived…


End file.
